


Even If I Go

by wtsnhlms



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Happy Ending, First Kiss, First Time, Forgiveness, Hug Scene (Sherlock: The Lying Detective), Implied/Referenced Drug Use, John Watson is disgustingly romantic, John's letter, M/M, POV Alternating, POV Sherlock Holmes, Parentlock, Post-Episode: s04e02 The Lying Detective, Romance, Scars, Sherlock Holmes is disgustingly in love, TFP doesn't exist, Vulnerable Sherlock, season 4 fix-it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-21
Updated: 2017-10-22
Packaged: 2018-11-03 04:21:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 19,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10959540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wtsnhlms/pseuds/wtsnhlms
Summary: Sherlock takes a leap of faith, confessing his feelings to John as his best friend sobs and trembles in his arms.He just didn't expect for John to react negatively to the news.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sherlockianworld](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlockianworld/gifts).



> Thank you, Elin, for making sure I know I'm not alone <3
> 
> -
>
>> "I know i'm not a perfect friend,  
> Your broken heart, I've tried to mend.  
> Instead I made you hurt and cry,  
> Maybe I should say goodbye.  
> Would it be better for me to go?  
> I asked you, and you said "No".  
> Why say no when I hurt you so bad,  
> But believe me,  
> you're not the only one that's sad.  
> I made my best friend hurt like mad,  
> If I left would you be glad?  
> Deep in my heart,  
> I'll always know,  
> I'll love you always,  
> Even if i go!"  
> \- Chrissie  
> 

Sherlock could only watch, unmoving in his chair, as John Watson fell apart in front of his very eyes.

He’d watched, as John spoke to a Mary that wasn’t there.

He’d watched, eyes widened in genuine surprise, as John admitted to having cheated on Mary.

And not long after, as John Watson’s face crumpled and the man stayed standing as he finally broke down, Sherlock slowly, and calmly set aside his cup and got to his feet. In two silent, giant strides he was there in front of his friend, right hand moving to whisper against the skin on the back of John’s neck, his left hand pulling the broken shell of a man towards his chest in what he hopes is an obvious offer of comfort.

“It’s okay,” Sherlock soothes, tightening his grasp.

“It’s not okay,” John gasps in between sobs.

“No,” Sherlock agrees, sadly. His chin moves to settle on top of his friend’s head, feeble, uncertain, and afraid of exposing how much he cares. “But it is what it is.” He slows his breathing, willing John to gather himself and giving the man time to let out his grief.

The two men stand there, in the heart of what used to be their home; two friends fighting to recover from what had to be n-th time their relationship was put to the test. _We’ve been through enough now_ , Sherlock thinks. _When will it ever end?_

He thinks back to the day of John and Mary’s wedding, when his very best friend had pulled him in for a hug after Sherlock delivered barely the first part of his speech as Best Man. The hug had started off in reverse then, with John the giver and Sherlock, the recipient. On the outside, the embrace had seemed to be one borne of joy and appreciation, but only Sherlock, and Sherlock alone, was aware of how his heart throbbed and ripped itself to shreds, thinking John was lost to him forever, berating himself for never grabbing the chance before it was all too late. 

Now here they are, John and Sherlock, though it feels as if it will never be the same again. The shadows of Mary’s existence will continue to haunt them, and for all Sherlock knows, they could be walking on eggshells for the rest of their life.

Perhaps it’s time Sherlock take the leap. After all, he has nothing left to lose. He and John may never be the same.

A declaration couldn’t do much to hurt the already crumbling foundations of their strained relationship, can it?

Sherlock takes a deep breath.

“I love you,” he whispers into John’s temple.

He braces himself.

John stiffens underneath his hold. His cries stop, his shoulders stop trembling. 

“…John?” Sherlock croaks.

John lifts his head, meeting his gaze. His midnight-blue eyes are glazed over, his mouth pinched in a tight line. He stares at Sherlock with a look so blank, the detective wanted to take it all back, take back the three words that he never thought he would ever, ever say out loud from the very moment Sherlock Holmes declared himself a sociopath, unfeeling and devoid of all human weaknesses. 

“Y- You don’t mean that,” John spits out, his gaze drilling into Sherlock’s, making the taller man drop his gaze to the floor underneath their feet. “After all this while, you-!”

“I do, John. I care about you.” Sherlock fights the impulse to hide, so he straightens himself once again, head bowed but his expressions open, letting all of the love and pain and affection show on his face.

He _needs_ John to understand, to accept it for what it is.

John pulls back, puts some distance between them. His hand shoots up to muffle his voice as a fresh wave of tears glisten and threaten to overflow.

Sherlock takes a step forward, hand outreached, wanting to bridge that gap before it got too far between the two of them.

“I can’t,” John mumbles into his hand, his head shaking, eyes squeezed shut as the sobbing returns. 

Sherlock falters in his steps, his hand falling back to his side in defeat. His eyes fall closed in resignation, as he listens with an acute pain in his chest as John Watson stumbles down the steps of 221B, out of the flat, out of his reach once again.

Sherlock turns, gingerly picks up the letter John had asked Molly to give him shortly after Mary’s death from where it sits inside the skull on the mantle. 

He folds it neatly, drops his dressing gown, and tucks it into his Belstaff.

Wincing his way down the stairs, Sherlock pulls his coat tight around him, careful of his bruised ribs as he shuts the main door behind him, turning and walking down the sidewalk in the opposite direction of where John Watson had fled.

Evidently, no one wants him. Sherlock accepts this truth with a heavy heart and a hollow feeling in his chest.

So on he walks into the night.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the way-overdue second chapter. I know I have a history of leaving works incomplete, but I sincerely want to see this one through to the end. Personal life, you know. It was being piss poor the last few weeks.
> 
> On a lighter note, the chapters each will not be long, unless absolutely necessary. First thing being that each chapter is an alternating pov between John and Sherlock, and really, when you're weighed down with work in real life, it's easier to write shorter chapters more often than struggle to write a long chapter and take weeks to do it. Anyhoo, I hope my writing isn't boring you guys already, hee.

John Watson walks, mostly unseeing.

He walks, and thinks, and barely catches himself as he stumbles up the stairs to his home.

 _Home?_ John asks himself. He laughs bitterly at the absurd idea of this, this apartment, where he and Mary had built a marriage - a sham? - and immediately he thinks back to 221B, where everything had been oh-so-wonderful and John had been happy and then Sherlock had to go _jump off the bloody roof-!_

Sherlock.

Sherlock, who had just, barely an hour ago, confessed to having feelings.

For _John_ , of all people.

God, John Watson was fucked up.

A gurgle and happy squeal greets him as he unlocks and steps through the front door of the house. Molly is there, bouncing a very-awake Rosie in her arms. She looks up, meeting John’s gaze, and immediately her face creases in concern.

“John? Is everything alright? I wasn’t due to go to Baker Street for another hour...” she speaks, timid and uncertain. Rosie wriggles in her arms, having spotted her father in the doorway.

“It’s… it’s fine. How about you go ahead first? It’s not that I’m kicking you out, it’s just-” John gestures towards Rosie, his feet automatically propelling him forward to lift the toddler out of Molly’s embrace. “Sorry. I missed her already,” John lies, avoiding his friend’s gaze as he lays a firm kiss on his daughter’s temple.

“Oh.. okay. Rosie’s all sorted, already bathed her a short while ago.” Molly gets to her feet, reaching out for her bag.

“Thanks Molls. Let me know how Sherlock is doing in a couple of hours yeah? I was planning to get everyone together tomorrow for a small celebration - did you know it’s his birthday?” 

“Y-yeah. I know,” Molly squeaks.

John feels another stab at his heart at the revelation that apparently Molly knows more about Sherlock than he would care to admit, and yet, who here is supposed to be Sherlock’s best friend?

 _Coward_.

“Right,” John replies, his throat closing up on him. Rosie seems to sense his distress, whimpering in his arms. “I’ll text you once I’ve checked if the rest can make it. Thanks again. Say bye-bye to Aunt Molly, Rosie.” He waves his daughter’s right arm in a mock-goodbye wave.

Molly reciprocates with a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes, and with a verbal farewell to Rosie, she closes the door behind her.

John collapses onto the sofa in the sitting room, his strength flagging and wanting very, _very_ badly to dig a hole in the ground and bury himself in it.

“Sherlock loves me,” John announces, to no one in particular. He thinks he should feel something, having said it out loud, but nothing changes other than the fact that he registers the slight quickening pace of his heart, and the sweat gathering at his brow.

“Sh-lah?” Rosie giggles from where she sits on his lap. She’s only just started discovering words, but already seems to be competent in grasping basic pronunciation. “Da? Da!” she giggles some more, clapping her hands together before sucking one fist into her mouth.

John stares at her, at the features she’s clearly taken from her mother: her curly hair, her facial expressions, her bubbly, loving personality. For once, he is glad Mary’s spectre is no longer there in his shadows. He doesn’t think he can handle what not-Mary might say to him now, now that he’s just run away from the very best thing that had ever happened to him.

Sherlock, whom he probably had just hurt once again. Not physically, like two days ago; the way he had brutally and unhesitatingly kicked and punched his best friend to a trembling, cowering lump on the floor of the morgue as Culverton looked on.

This time, he’d hurt Sherlock emotionally. Gave him a roundhouse kick to the heart, rejecting his affections at what has to be the very worst time to do it.

Sherlock had opened his arms, allowing John to see into his heart, full and bursting of love to give, and John had pushed him away, too afraid and filled with shame to accept that love.

 _I’m a right bastard_ , John groans, inwardly. It takes him a while to register that Rosie is wailing now, and John himself is a mess of tears and shaking sobs. He stands, trying to shush his frightened daughter, his salty tears running down his cheeks and settling in her soft hair, where her head is tucked underneath his chin. 

“God, Rosie, shhh,” John sobs, trying to calm her down, but it isn’t helping things, is it, to be about to go into full panic mode, himself? He walks about, rocking her, praying that the motion will soothe both of them, and eventually Rosie’s cries turn into wet whimpers, and he walks up the stairs to her bedroom. 

He lays her in her cot, one or two tears dripping onto Rosie’s romper. Grabbing her favourite plushie, John tucks it in by her side and sings her to sleep, hiccuping in between the words. His heart clenches every time his daughter cries, and knowing that he’s the one who caused her distress tonight, John works harder to pacify her, soothe her, love her. He pours all his love he’s set aside for Rosie into the song, and when he’s wrung out and empty and the toddler is breathing evenly in peaceful sleep, John eases himself onto the floor by her cot and curls up in self-hatred.

Downstairs, his phone buzzes with a frantic call from Molly, followed by an urgent text from Mycroft.


	3. John's Letter

_To: Sherlock,_

_I have nothing to say at this point._

_I don't wish to see you, indefinitely, because all you do is remind me of how horribly my life has turned out._

_You've only gone and taken away people I've cared about_ twice _now. First you, when you stepped off St. Bart’s. Yes, you came back, but that's not the point here._

_Then you go and take Mary away. Rosie is now without a mother, and I'm left a widower._

_I need you to leave me the hell alone, so I can mend on my own terms. I'm not seeing Ella anymore. Figured I've saddled her with enough troubles for one patient file anyway._

_All I ask is for you to respect my wishes. It'll do neither of us good to cross paths right now._

_I trust that Mycroft and Mrs Hudson will watch over you. You were fine before I came along, and you'll be fine now without me there._

_I'll give your love to Rosie._

_Take good care of yourself._

_John._


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock stares at the night sky above him, laid out on his back with nothing but his Belstaff underneath him, shielding him from the cold concrete floor.

His breath puffs warm clouds into the cold air, and with every second he finds it increasingly harder to ignore the stabbing pain in his side. His hands, where they were clasped over the offending area, come away a stark red.

Sherlock laughs, the movement making him wince as the pain amplifies with every hitch of his chest.

He had come out all the way here, to the far reaches of North London, in search of his usual supplier, desperate for something, _anything_ to make him forget the pain of the last seventy-two hours. Turns out luck, (and whenever has Sherlock Holmes ever believed in luck?) was evading him. Sherlock approached the haggard-looking dealer, only to be mugged and robbed of his phone and wallet. Said dealer turned out to have none of what Sherlock needed, having inhaled the last of his supply himself before going on a murderous high and stabbing the detective with a rusty knife he brandished out of nowhere and fleeing into the night.

Of all the times Sherlock had imagined dying in a dark alleyway, it was always during a dramatic chase with a criminal, and not during a pathetic and desperate attempt to acquire cocaine, for _god's sake_.

And the cherry on top of the cake? He is bleeding out, alone, with no way of calling for help.

 _What a dull, pedestrian way to die,_ he thinks. _John would be sorely disappointed in him._

That's all Sherlock has ever been, his whole life.

A big disappointment. 

Even if he wasn't, (and he _is_ ) he was never accepted by the people around him. All he ever did was be himself, and he only became the most hated and socially outcast person everywhere he went. He built layers upon layers of indifference around him, to numb the hurt he felt each time people called him a bastard, a freak. By the time he was in university, he was immune to the insults, making full use of the social exclusion to focus on outperforming everyone in his cohort. He had no friends, until the anomaly that was Victor Trevor came along. 

Something about Victor made Sherlock put his guard down, and little by little, Sherlock found himself harbouring feelings for his closest, and only friend. Innocent study sessions at each other's apartments eventually encouraged his curious, untested mind to go further, testing the waters between them by initiating that first kiss. By the tenth study-cum-sleepover, Sherlock found himself flat on his back in his bed, crying out in pleasure-pain as Victor grunted above him and pushed inside him, hard and quick. 

He thought what he felt for Victor was - unmistakeably - love, and Sherlock, for once, was _happy_.

Until the next morning, when he woke up expecting to be wrapped in the arms of the man he loved, only to find Victor's side of the bed cold, and a hasty note left on it, the message it contained leaving Sherlock devastated.

 **The boys were right, you did make for a fantastic fuck. Shame we all hate you though, I'd gladly have my way with you over and over till the only thing coming out of that luscious mouth was you begging for more of my cock. Oh, and Ta for the 200 quid you helped me win!**

That same morning, Sherlock took cocaine for the first time. He lost all semblence of self-control, and petty things like emotions, he shoved to the back of his mind palace and left them there to gather dust. He was broken, his demons taking over him. He trusted no-one, not even himself.

Now here he lies, dying from blood loss and a broken heart. Again. Sherlock is a fool for trusting John Watson, letting him in, unlocking his true self underneath; the Sherlock that craved affection, and companionship, and someone to love and be loved in return.

_John._

The thought of him sends Sherlock's pulse skittering again, and he gasps and tries to delay the inevitable. Loving John Watson has been simultaneously the most rewarding, and most painful thing Sherlock has ever let himself experience, and he can't help but wonder if he could have saved himself the heartbreak a long time ago, and stayed dead after he fell from the roof of St. Bart's. He could have died in isolation somewhere in Europe, and no one would be none the lesser. John would be happy with Mary and the family he's always wanted. Sherlock would have suffered, yes, but ultimately his sacrifice for John Watson was for the sole purpose of keeping him alive, and alive, John _is_. 

He conjures up the letter in his mind's eye, John's scathing words staring down at him in reproach, each one a blinding pain in his heart. 

Sherlock had been the root cause of John's life going downhill.

Perhaps it's time he remove himself permanently from John's life. They're all better off without him, John, Lestrade, even Mycroft. They all would have one less thing, person, to worry about, to watch over. The world would move on, would keep spinning without him.

As his vision blackens and blurs at the edges, Sherlock allows himself a final shred of memory: that very first evening he and John had stumbled into the foyer at 221B, breathless from running from the police. John had been incandescent then, all signs of his limp gone, eyes shining with newfound purpose and mouth pulled in the most delighted smile Sherlock has seen on John to this very day. He'd already loved John then, and wouldn't realise it until he was standing on the precipice of St. Bart's, sobbing his goodbye into the phone, John nothing but a tiny speck on the ground before him. He had let himself believe that John's anguished cries afterwards were borne of sincere heartbreak, and sorrow, and a promise of _something_ that was gone before it had ever seen the light of day.

Sherlock gathers the sheer amount of data on John Watson he has in his mind and lets them saturate his very being.

With the memory of John Watson warm and loved, always loved in his arms, Sherlock succumbs to exhaustion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this chapter sucks, but right now I'm feeling like what my Sherlock is feeling: dejected and rejected by everyone. 
> 
> It is not a nice feeling, and hopefully will be gone by the next update, which is John's pov, and quite likely will be up tomorrow! ^^


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't thank you all enough for the emotional support. Really. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. 
> 
> <3

John startles awake to the sounds of banging and the rattling of his front door, only to wince as he realises that he’s been sleeping on the unforgiving floor, and not his bed.

“What--?” he groans, checking that Rosie is still asleep, despite the ruckus. Pushing himself off the floor, John takes a moment to stretch and loosen the cricks in his back. Rubbing the unwelcome twinge in his bad shoulder, he drags himself down the stairs and to the front door, grumbling his acknowledgement at whomever had the gall to disturb him at this ungodly hour.

He’d have a fit if it is some drunkard behind the door, thinking that he’s at the correct house, because god knows it’s happened before.

“John! You there, mate?!” a voice boomed through the heavy door, just as he is about to peek through the peep hole.

_What the fuck?_

“Greg?” John calls, as he opens the door, revealing a breathless detective inspector on his doorstep. The man is red-faced, sweaty and looking to be on the edge of a minor panic attack.

“Finally! We’ve been trying to reach you by phone for an hour!” Lestrade chokes out, gripping the doorframe tight in his grasp. “It’s Sherlock.”

“What’s he got himself into this time? I only just saw him yesterday eve-”

“He’s got himself stabbed, mate,” Lestrade interrupts, his features crumpling to one resembling disapproval.

John shuts up. He freezes up, eyes wide in disbelief. 

It takes him five seconds before he manages a choked “You’re kidding me.”

“I bloody hell wish I was! His brother tasked me to personally pick you up. We’ve been trying your phone for ages!” Greg grouses, already pulling John by the elbow, out the door. “Well, what are you waiting for?”

“I can’t just leave Rosie behind, can I?!” John argues, his mind already a mess from the emotional turmoil he’s endured for the past two days, but luckily he still has some sense in him before he spins on his heel, thundering up the stairs and settling his daughter’s slumbering form into his arms.

Making his way quickly but quietly back down, John grabs his phone and house keys with one hand, passing the keys to Greg to lock up the house as John rushes over to his neighbour’s. He hands Rosie over to the sympathetic - and understanding - Mrs Orwell without a word. She’s well acquainted with the family, and ever since Mary died, she’s stepped in as a mother figure to Rosie without hesitation, and John will be forever grateful.

The sun is just beginning to break through the horizon as he and Greg speed their way down the mostly-deserted streets towards Royal London Hospital. The two men don’t talk; Greg is obviously uncertain of the circumstances as to how Sherlock got injured, and John is struggling to comprehend how anyone could land themselves in hospital twice in a matter of days.

 _Sherlock could_ , his mind helpfully supplies. 

John hates himself for agreeing.

They make haste towards the A&E, and after a few urgent words with the counter staff, both men find themselves outside the operating theatre, with Mycroft pacing the floors, the _tap-tap-tap_ of his umbrella the only sound in the otherwise quiet corridor. The elder Holmes looks calm, as he always appears, but after a few years with Mycroft as a somewhat-acquaintance, John has learned to read the smallest of signs that belie the true state of the man’s mood.

Mycroft is worried, and more than understandably so. He acknowledges their arrival with nothing more than a nod to each, though John thinks there was a certain hint of anger in the man’s features when he and John locked gazes.

 _Did I have something to do with this?_ John asks himself, confusion writ large on his face.

“Sherlock was found unconscious in a derelict part of North London just an hour ago,” Mycroft announces, his stern gaze making John want to cower in the corner in intimidation. 

“Unconscious?” John stammers, not liking vague details of Sherlock’s condition.

“He had a puncture wound to the spleen. Now, _Doctor_ Watson, what can a massive injury to that particular section of the human anatomy entail? Enlighten us, will you?” Mycroft sneers, choosing to settle on the nearby chair, crossing one leg elegantly over the other, umbrella swinging from his finger, almost mocking.

“Ma- massive blood loss, mainly,” John says, his voice small and afraid. Properly afraid. He struggles to gather his thoughts. “He- he’s not-?”

“No, but I understand that Sherlock was already in cardiac arrhythmia when the paramedics were alerted to his unfortunate state by a member of his hateful homeless network.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Indeed, Doctor Watson. This marks the second time now that my brother came close to essentially leaving this world permanently, with you being more or less the reason why he came close _in the first place_.”

“Wait, what’s this one got to do with me?” John gasps, his voice raising with every word that left his lips, unwilling to be blamed when he cannot see the link between Sherlock dying in the middle of nowhere and himself.

Mycroft gives an exaggerated roll of his eyes. “My surveillance observed Sherlock leaving 221B mere minutes after you stumbled out the door yesterday afternoon. It did not require effort to see that he was quite distressed after your departure, and my CCTV cameras followed him as he was quite obviously seeking out his old cocaine dealer. Take that as you will, Doctor Watson, but how does that _not_ translate to the fact that something happened to the two of you, something unsavoury, quite certainly, that drove my brother to his old habits without hesitation?”

John stares at Mycroft, the twinge in his shoulder flaring up out of nowhere. He clenches his left fist, trying to dispel the ache.

“Nothing. Happened,” John replies, his stance straightening in defiance. He will not let Mycroft bully him like this, he cannot let the man blame him every time Sherlock takes an unprecedented tumble into oblivion. “Is that what you think, hmm, that I’m the sole cause? You don’t have the right-!”

“He is my flesh and blood, Doctor Watson. I have more right over his wellbeing than you ever will. You’re just his _companion_.”

“Fuck you, Mycroft. Companion, my arse. I’m the one who looks after him, makes him eat, makes sure he takes care of himself as you’re bumbling about god-knows-where, only caring about your politics and concerning yourself with Sherlock’s matters when you have a favour to ask of him.”

“The last time you _looked after him_ was before your marriage to Ms Morstan,” Mycroft stated, eyes cold and calculating, spitting out Mary’s name like it was the worst thing he’d ever had on his lips. "He offered his life for the taking twice, for you, yet you kick him to the side with no regard for just how much he's sacrificed to keep your friendship."

John swallows around the tightness in his throat, his next words dying on his tongue, because it hurts, boy it hurts, because what Mycroft just said is nothing but the truth.

“I won’t have you see Sherlock once he’s out of surgery. You've damaged him enough.”

John’s gaze snaps up to meet Mycroft’s, mouth agape in disbelief. The elder Holmes turns away to look at the doors separating the three men from the one person that has bound their lives together inexplicably. He continues, “As a matter of fact, I suggest you go home to your daughter. You have someone else to care for, now. I’ll be taking Sherlock in until he’s fully recovered. Have a good day, Doctor Watson.”

John bristles at the threat. He stands his ground, defiant. 

“I’m not leaving him. Not now, _never_ again.”


	6. Chapter 6

It is blissfully quiet in his mind palace, Sherlock realises, as he stares down the endless corridor lined with doors on each side. 

_Too_ quiet.

As he takes a few tentative steps forwards, Sherlock finds himself feeling unusually disconnected from everything; Where normally he sees whatever is hidden within each room with perfect clarity, this time everything appears hazy to his eyes, blurred at the edges.

As he struggles to make sense of the unsettling feeling, Sherlock barely makes out a buzzing sound coming from all around him. He spins on his heels, eyes darting, seeking out the source of the sound, when it happens:

A harsh jolt seizes his body; his mind palace shakes on its foundations, the lights flicker overhead. 

Sherlock falls to the floor with a strangled cry, clutching his chest where it burns. He feels his heartbeat pick up, irregular, the bundle of muscles thumping wildly as it struggles to find its rhythm.

He tries to push himself back up, but a second jolt paralyzes his body but for a few seconds, and Sherlock can do nothing but writhe on the linoleum floor as his body thrums with newfound life.

As the shockwaves reverberate through him, the searing pain in his chest is enough to startle Sherlock into tears. He groans, crying out for something, someone, to _please make it stop_. He squeezes his eyes shut, fighting the pain, his nails scraping against the cold ground as his body arches in agony.

 _Sherlock?_ A familiar voice cuts through the haze, its sound a welcome anchor onto which Sherlock desperately grabs onto.

The buzzing sounds stop, and his eyes fly open.

Sherlock blinks away the stark white colours that assault his vision, whimpering and turning his head away, in search of the voice. He squeezes his eyes shut, allowing his ears to make out the rapid beeping sound to his right, and the feather like sensation of a hand on his. His brain struggles to catch up.

“Sherlock?” the voice asks once more.

Sherlock shifts, the sheets underneath him shuffling with the movement, the material slightly abrasive against his heated skin - _hospital?_ \- as he recalibrates his senses. Eyes fluttering open, the bright white colours fade into the background, bringing the familiar figure of one Mycroft Holmes into stark contrast. He lets out the strained breath from his lungs in one rapid gush, taking in deep lungfuls of life-giving air to calm his frantic heart, the beeping on his right decreasing as the minutes ticked by.

He isn’t about to admit that he is almost disappointed that it isn’t John by his bedside this time. Speaking of which-

“What brings you here, Mycroft? No war to wage in some faraway country?” Sherlock croaks, hissing as an attempt to pull himself upright results in a considerable amount of pain flaring from just below his ribs.

“No war out there is of higher importance than your welfare, brother mine,” Mycroft replies, his voice subdued, as if it pained him so to express something as trivial as sentiment.

Sherlock merely raises his eyebrows, surrendering to the discomfort and settling back onto the hospital bed. A tense, silent minute passes before he decides that he simply does not have the strength to be playing mind games with his older brother. His head is throbbing, and Sherlock has the sudden urge to tear himself free from the bed and flee back into the night. Just as he is about to make a smart remark that may irritate Mycroft enough to give him space, the other man breaks the silence.

“John Watson is here. He insists on staying, even though I have made it explicitly clear that he is not to be in contact, at all, with you, for the time being. I know something happened between the two of you. Whatever it was, it led you to seek your old habits, and right now I could have been looking down at your cold, lifeless body in the morgue _instead_ , if your homeless network had discovered you a minute too late-!” Mycroft fumes, the umbrella held tight in his grasp, the man’s posture ramrod straight, poised for a fight. “What happened, Sherlock?”

“It’s none of your concern, Mycroft,” Sherlock sighs, averting his gaze to look out the window to the corridor outside, subconsciously seeking out the familiar silhouette of his friend.

_Are they? Friends? Or did Sherlock ruin it all?_

“It concerns me when one man singlehandedly almost drove my baby brother to his death, thrice now!”

Inwardly, Sherlock reels back as if slapped, the memories flashing through his mind of that very first time he’d died for John Watson; The loneliness and hopelessness he’d felt during his time away as potent now as it had been then. The second time, it may not have been John’s fault, but Sherlock’s failure to see through his then-wife’s facade was what led to him flatlining on the operating room trolley. The day before marks the third time: John’s look of utter shock and rejection, the expression Sherlock never considered could be the one to follow his confession. Afterwards, Sherlock had almost died, all alone on the street.

He wants to take it all back, but there’s no way out of this, except to move forward. Before he can do that however, he would need to have a final word with John. Sherlock needs to be sure of what transpired between them lest he misunderstands, and if necessary, give him the chance to bid John a proper goodbye before he submits himself to Mycroft’s supervision.

“Let me see him,” Sherlock says, meeting his brother’s hardening gaze. “I want to see John.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Mycroft. Please. Afterwards I’ll let you do what needs must,” Sherlock sighs, his heart sinking at the thought of being isolated from his conductor of light, but then John’s crestfallen face comes to mind, and Sherlock shutters all emotion from his face in preparation of the conversation to come.

Mycroft stares back at Sherlock, his features softening before throwing a final glance at the monitors surrounding his brother. With another minute shake of his head, Mycroft saunters out, his steps fierce against the linoleum floor.

Not a minute later, John Watson pushes the door open, and steps into the room with his shoulders slumped, his face the unhappiest Sherlock’s ever seen him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is being written as we speak, and will be up tomorrow. 
> 
> I wonder what John has to say for himself...


	7. Chapter 7

John stands outside Sherlock’s room, his hand sweating where it grasps the handle, his skin prickling with anxiety and regret.

Mycroft had waved him in, his face stern and threatening as he conveyed Sherlock’s request to see him. John merely nodded, walking briskly past Mycroft with his tail between his legs.

For the first time in a very long time, John Watson finds himself at a crossroads, torn between walking away from, or coming face-to-face with the one person who stormed his way into John’s life, upturning everything and promptly setting everything right where they belonged.

Deep down, John knows that if he does not do this, both of them will end up hollow and beyond repair, and the last thing he wants to do is cause Sherlock more hurt. He owes him this much, at least. 

In the fifteen minutes since the doctors gave them the all-clear to visit Sherlock, John had thought long and hard about everything he and Sherlock have been through; All the joy, apprehension, hurt and excitement and everything in between. For the first time in his life, John Watson lets himself see the big picture, and what he sees there fills his soul with hope and trepidation.

He sees Sherlock’s face from yesterday afternoon, the normally unsmiling face riddled with crinkles old and new, a small upturn at the corner of his mouth betraying a small, fond smile. His eyes were alight with fear, uncertainty, but his arms where they were wrapped around John’s shaking form were steady and protective.

He’s seen that face before, during Sherlock’s best man speech. As the man stood there regaling tales of their adventures, Sherlock had looked down at John in between, the same feelings writ large on his open, expressive face. There was something else then, now that John were to think about it. Sherlock’s smile was more a frown, but John had known Sherlock long enough at that point to make out the subtle changes in his mood. 

Then came the surprise deduction about Mary’s pregnancy, and in the blink of an eye, John had watched with restrained worry as Sherlock’s eyes dropped to the floor in what had to be resignation, and sadness. John hadn’t understood then, why Sherlock would be sad that John was about to be a father. 

John hadn’t understood a lot of things about Sherlock since the detective returned from the fall, it seemed.

_Sherlock loves me. Everything he’s done, it was all for me._

_Why me?_

Mycroft clears his throat from behind him, and John cottons on that he has been standing at the door like an idiot, braced to open it, but unmoving. Swallowing hard, he pushes the door open and lets himself in, eyes automatically coming to focus on the pale figure on the bed.

John’s face falls at the sight of his friend, weak and in pain, in a hospital bed barely two days after he’d been in another across the city - his body bearing the marks of John’s grief and brutality. He can still see the yellow-green bruise adorning the area below Sherlock’s left pectoral, from where John had kicked him repeatedly as the man lay helpless on the floor. John feels nauseous with guilt at the sight of it.

The sound of the door closing behind him echoes through the still air of the room. John remains where he is, unwilling to move closer unless Sherlock asks him to. Instead he takes the lead, opening the conversation.

He was aiming for a “How are you?”, but what came out of his mouth instead was a wooden “I’m sorry.” John winces at the apology. He could do better, he thinks. 

Before he can say more however, Sherlock waves away the apology with a pinched smile. 

John hates the distance between them, the mere metres between him and Sherlock feeling more and more like an inescapable chasm with every second that passes. He watches as Sherlock balls up the blanket covering his legs, breaking their gaze as he looks down and away.

Sherlock looks utterly vulnerable at that moment, and John _hates_ that he’s the one responsible for making Sherlock look that way.

“I apologise for making you uncomfortable yesterday,” Sherlock whispers, just loud enough for John to hear him. “I will never mention it again.”

John stops breathing, eyes widening in horror as he catches sight of a tear rolling down Sherlock’s cheek. “Sherlock-”

“Forget it, John. Pretend it never happened.”

“But-”

“When I’m feeling better later, I will delete it. Delete it all,” Sherlock sniffs, his heart rate picking up according to the monitors, the sound paralyzing John where he stands.

“No, Sherlock, listen to me, _please_ ,” John breathes, his hand moving on its own accord, raised as if reaching out for his distressed friend.

“I don’t know what came over me, John. I shouldn’t have said anything. I exploited your moment of weakness to confess something I shouldn’t have. I apologize. I’ll delete it all, and I can only hope that you promise to ignore that memory on your end.” Sherlock is properly shaking now, the sheets trembling in his grip as the man appears to be trying his damndest to keep his composure.

“What do you mean, delete it all?” John gasps, taking one, two steps forwards. He is terrified, his chest throbbing in hurt and shame at the sight of Sherlock breaking in front of him.

“All the times I ever allowed myself to slip and give in to weakness, all the times I allowed myself to feel something for you,” Sherlock replies, his chin to his chest, his body trying to curl up into a fetal position - Sherlock’s default state whenever he is upset, or in a strop. “I’ll delete it all so you can be rest assured that I regard you as only a friend, and nothing more.”

“Please don’t do that,” John pleads, halfway towards the bed, both hands raised in a placating manner. “You- you don’t have to!”

“I see it now,” Sherlock hiccups, his voice barely audible over his suppressed sobs. John’s heart breaks. “You never would have chose me. You’d rather have anyone but me.”

Hearing his words parroted back to him, conveyed from Molly to Sherlock that awful morning after Mary’s death, broke something inside John.

He surges forwards, grabbing Sherlock’s clammy wrist where it lies on the bed. Sherlock’s pulse thumps erratically under his fingertips. The man greets his approach with startled, watery eyes.

“Listen to me!” John nearly shouts, desperate with fear. “I love you, alright?! Stop saying those things, Christ, just _stop it!_ ”

“Doctor Watson, let my brother go,” Mycroft growls from behind him. “Immediately.”

John turns back to look at him in shock before facing Sherlock once more. 

Sherlock is no longer looking at him, his head turned away, but the lighting in the room allow John to see that Sherlock is now properly crying, and it takes him a few seconds to register the tugging from where his hand is locked tight to Sherlock’s wrist. 

_I’ve hurt him. He’s- he’s-_

_What have I done?_

_I’m a monster._

“ _Doctor Watson_!” Mycroft warns, and John lets go of Sherlock’s wrist, looking on in horror as Sherlock snatches his arm back and turns on his side, facing the window. Hateful sobbing wrecks his body, and before John can do anything more, he is being dragged away by a man too big to fight off.

“Sher-!” John cries out, desperate to get back to his best friend, but truth be told, John no longer trusts himself to do anything right anymore. 

Helpless, John catches one last glimpse of Sherlock’s limp form before he is pulled away, thrashing to break free. He feels a prick to the back of his neck, and the world fades out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry, but I had to do it ><
> 
> ***Please let me know in the comments if you think I've gone too far plot-wise. My default mode on johnlock is angst because it makes the happy ending all the more worth it, but sometimes I do worry that the latest update ruined the story for my readers. I appreciate each and every criticism, so yeah. Let me know your honest opinions <3 I'll then try to improve the story :)


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock refused to speak to anyone after what happened at the hospital. He keeps to himself, brushing Mycroft’s hushed words aside, giving him the silent treatment until the elder Holmes gives up and marches his way out of the flat.

He doesn’t respond to Mrs Hudson’s puttering about the flat, let alone her requests for him to at least eat the food she’s prepared for him. Each time, just before she returns to 221A, his landlady will lay a gentle hand on his shoulder, the touch just enough to keep Sherlock grounded, reminding himself to not go too far lost into his mind palace in search for answers.

John’s words haunt him.

 _“I love you, alright?!”_ were the words, a clap of thunder in the quiet of Sherlock’s hospital room.

Sherlock shudders at the thought of it. He shudders, and whatever sensible thoughts he thinks he’s gathered in his mind scatter, carried away by a nonexistent gale of wind.

 _He didn’t mean it_ , Sherlock tells himself, certain yet unconvinced. _He only said it because…_

He only remembers it then - his promises to delete everything. To delete his affections for John Watson, his love. Sherlock doesn’t know what spurred him on to give voice to his insecurities and suggest even doing such a thing, but John being there became too much and Sherlock couldn’t help but rise on his hackles and defend himself the only way he knew how: with a direct blow to John’s emotions, and his own. 

He’d told himself that the only way they could pull themselves out of this mess was if Sherlock got rid of the feelings he’d let break through his mental defences. Moving to lay himself on his back on the sofa, Sherlock adopts into the familiar position with his hands steepled under his chin, and delves into the most hidden corners of his mind palace, uncovering every single memory of John he’s kept thus far.

If the fact that Sherlock has archived each and every moment he’s spent in John’s presence, no matter how small or big, _without fail_ , should alarm him - well, it doesn’t matter now, does it?

It takes Sherlock a while to gather them all, and the sheer size of the pile of memories - represented by glowing embers of light around him; the more crucial the memory, the brighter it burns - has the man stock still where he sits on the cold floor of his mind palace, barely breathing, eyes wide and uncomprehending of the sheer enormity of the task he’s presented himself with.

Where his mind is concerned, deleting unnecessary bits and bobs of information is simple enough - all it requires is a cursory flick of the wrist, and the offending item is gone. It does not take much to rid his hard drive of rubbish. Sherlock quite enjoys the immense satisfaction of filling every nook and cranny of his mind palace with information the ordinary human mind wouldn’t even be capable of storing.

He spots a particularly intense halo floating to his right: the night John killed a man for him - without hesitation, his hand steady and true where it is wrapped around the handle of his Sig. John feigning innocence whilst surrounded by the police, Sherlock staring at him as the pieces fell into place. 

Another bright ember catches Sherlock’s attention. He turns to it, cradling it in his palms as best as he could as the memory assaults his senses. Sherlock gasps as he recalls the morning John made it known that he considered Sherlock to be his very best friend. The kitchen is alight with the smell of burning flesh and the birds outside the window have gone quiet. Sherlock had been so startled by the revelation, that he had to take an embarrassingly long time to reboot his hard drive and react. 

The way John had looked at that moment in time - Sherlock would never forget it.

His friend’s deep cobalt blue eyes had been shimmering with something akin to fondness, exasperation, a hint of panic and… and - affection. John cared for Sherlock enough to consider him worthy of John’s companionship and trust. 

Sherlock never asked for a best friend all his life, never thought himself deserving of one after all he’d been through. But John had limped his way in. Insignificant, weary, unassuming, _remarkable, brilliant, headstrong_ John Watson had done the one thing no one else could: he’d made Sherlock human.

He’d made Sherlock all the weaker for it, but what is a man without flaws, if not to use that weakness to build on his strengths?

Before, Sherlock had viewed everything around him in a calculating, disconnected manner. He’d driven everyone else away, thinking them inferior for dabbing in something as mundane as emotions. Even when he was consulting for the Yard, he’d struggled to understand the emotional drive of the most common of murders. 

He thought himself undoubtedly superior, and then John had opened his eyes to another world of possibilities, where Sherlock didn’t have to be miserable (he accepts this now as the truth) and alone anymore. 

He may be back to square one right now, but he still owed John for all that the man has given him, for John’s constant presence and guidance had been all Sherlock needed to regain his footing, and for his cold, hard exterior to warm and gradually fade to nothingness.

John had changed Sherlock for the better, and nothing he could do now would erase the irrevocable change the former soldier had instilled in him.

Looking all around him, Sherlock notes that the happy memories far outweigh the sad; Where there are gaping black holes - the most painful thoughts he’s had concerning John - there are brilliant stars all around it, too bright to extinguish. Sherlock has the fleeting memory of reading up on black holes and the absolute absence of light within them, - more to impress John than Sherlock would care to admit - and he can only give in to the flashback of when he and John had been looking up at the brilliance of the night sky above them during that case with the Blind Banker.

Sherlock blinks away the blurriness in his vision, and something wet drips onto his cheek, followed by another, and another.

_Beautiful, isn’t it?_

And all of a sudden, Sherlock cannot do it.

He curls up on the floor, the warmth of the embers around him a comforting blanket, as soothing as John’s touch and murmurs of comfort every time Sherlock finds himself hurt.

He whimpers as more salty tears slide down his cheeks, and soon, Sherlock finds himself in an overwhelming state of calm. Soon enough, he gives in to the pull of sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise for the late (and eek, shorter??) update, same old thoughts bringing me down more than I should have allowed them to. I'm alright now. My thoughts went through the same peaks and troughs as Sherlock's here, lol :s
> 
> Anyone here an INFJ...? I'm curious. I prefer knowing I'm not as alone as I think, I guess.
> 
> And, as usual, send me feedback on how I'm doing. Any form of criticism keeps me striving to give you all my best I can offer in this story. Much love to everyone <3


	9. Chapter 9

_“Under no circumstances are you to approach Sherlock, unless it is he who comes to you first. Have I made myself clear, Doctor Watson?”_

Mycroft’s scathing words haunt John for days afterwards, the threat unspoken but clear as day. He shudders just thinking of it, alone in his flat as he stares at Rosie’s sleeping form, tucked soundly into her cot. The little girl has been cheerful, mostly, but once in awhile she would give John a _look_ , and emit a hopeful “Sh’lah?”, and John would respond with a little shake of his head and a firm kiss to her temple. He would do this every time she asked, without fail.

Rosie misses Sherlock.

John would be lying to himself if he said he didn’t miss the detective, too. Quite badly, in fact.

He’s been proactive, checking up on Sherlock the only way how, without actually being there at Baker Street. He calls Mrs Hudson, murmuring apologies and excuses for his absence, and he would listen gravely as his old lady tells of Sherlock’s unresponsiveness, and overall inactivity. The last time he’d called, Mrs Hudson had been particularly worried for the state of her only tenant upstairs, to the point where he could do nothing but try to soothe the distraught landlady that Sherlock would be alright, he is, he _has to_. 

“ _He needs you_ , John!” she’d cried.

“I know,” John had whispered, into the phone, his face glistening with silent tears of his own. “But I can’t come see him yet. He needs space away from me, for- For his sake.”

“You know that’s not true!” she’d scolded.

“Yeah, well. Turns out I don’t know a lot of things, Mrs Hudson.”

John still attends sessions with his new therapist Marlene. She had been a big help after Mary’s death, but with the new developments concerning Sherlock and John’s violent bouts of anger, they’d had no choice but to push back John’s progress. He took it all to stride, knowing that he is now no longer just doing this for himself and Rosie, but for Sherlock as well; John wants to give it his all, to prove himself and everyone else that he is a changed man.

_Oh, who am I kidding?_ John groans to himself, dismayed at the prospect of the long journey ahead. He’d driven away the one person who mattered most, making the worst decisions of his life along the way. He couldn’t help Harry when she needed him, he married an assassin, and had seriously hurt his best friend. 

John is a failure, through and through. 

Rosie’s soft baby sounds permeate his thoughts, and John looks down to where the toddler slumbers, unaware of her father’s dilemma. “If there’s one thing I hope to never fail at, it’s being a father to you, darling girl,” John smiles, reaching a hand in to touch his daughter’s soft baby skin. The touch stirs the baby, but just barely, as she shifts into her father’s touch. John’s heart swells at the sight, but his smile quickly drops as his mind clouds over with thoughts of Sherlock all alone in 221B, with no one to keep him occupied, or listen to him speak his musings aloud. If it is true what Mrs Hudson said, that Sherlock had not even left the flat to solve cases for the Yard, then that is what really gets John worried - the realisation that there is literally nothing there that can distract the detective from falling headfirst into another relapse, one bad enough that Sherlock may never recover from.

John strokes Rosie’s downy, blonde locks with gentle, loving fingers as he weighs the only option his pathetic self has to offer. 

He thinks of the times Sherlock had offered to watch over Rosie whenever the need arose, before Mary died. He and Mary had been ever-so-slightly reluctant to hand over babysitting duties to the detective, but seeing how Sherlock’s smile dipped ever so slightly at the possibility that John did not even trust Sherlock with his daughter’s well being had caused a slight crack under his defenses. 

And so, John and Mary had left Rosie to Sherlock’s care as they left for some alone time and a lovely dinner, just the two of them, with Sherlock’s heartfelt vow - albeit a bit _too_ overdone - that he could watch her just fine.

The both of them returned to 221B just before midnight to a sight so precious, John couldn’t help but grin at the memory ingrained deep in the recesses of his brain: Sherlock spread out on the sofa, fast asleep, with his body slightly tilted and curled around a snoozing Rosie on his chest, made warm and comfy with her favourite blanket on top.

That had only been the first of many memorable candid moments of Sherlock and Rosie stored lovingly in John’s thoughts. He looks down at the toddler now, at her fragile, tiny fist curled beside her head, and John’s hand beside hers, gigantic in comparison. Something about that image made John’s skin crawl.

Rosie, innocent, adorable, fascinating and all-around, the centre of John’s world. John knows someone else shares that spot with her, and that person is in pain, and hurting, and John is not there to make it all better.

Seeing his hand close to Rosie’s lights a fierce flare of self-contempt in John; his hands have recently done nothing but punched, prodded, grabbed and shoved. John’s hands landed Sherlock in hospital, battered and bruised; The same hands that served him well in his military life, and with which he’d cared for his daughter, are now tainted with hidden scars of abuse and pain.

John makes the decision then, that he needs to get his act together if he ever wishes to continue being the father Rosie deserves in her life. If he and Sherlock were never to reconcile, the very least he can contribute to this life is to be there for his daughter, to be her pillar of support through thick and thin.

John needs to get away from London for a short while to gather his thoughts and decide what he wants to do next in his life. But before he can go any further, he needs to find someone he can trust to take care of Rosie - his mind conjures the name of the person almost instantly.

_Sherlock._

John knows that this is a risky move, asking your best friend to babysit your child after all you’ve put him through. But Sherlock loves Rosie - this John knows without a doubt - and maybe having the baby around will serve enough of a distraction for the consulting detective. Anything is better that seeing the man succumb to the demons of his past and present.

His mind made up, John pulls out his phone, and dials Mycroft Holmes’ number.

The man picks up after just two rings.

“Mycroft, I- I need a favour,” John speaks, spine straightening, guts clenching in anxiety.

***

Two days later, John is just getting off the phone with Marlene, informing her of his impromptu weekend away, when he hears the curt knocking of the front door.

“Right then, up we get!” he croons to Rosie, the little girl giggling from her spot, strapped into her portable car seat. “Ready to see Uncle Sherlock?” Grabbing her overnight bag in one hand and the car seat in the other, John nudges the door open the rest of the way, nodding to the chauffeur and passing the bag to him before turning and closing and locking the front door.

He walks briskly to the black car waiting, sliding into the back seat and securing Rosie’s car seat before the car pulls away from the pavement. He looks up, and meets the neutral gaze of Sherlock’s elder brother.

“I appreciate you letting me do this, Mycroft,” John says, his eyes lowering to the carpet beneath his feet, hot red shame filling his cheeks.

“I allowed this only because it would do Sherlock a lot of good and get him to stop wasting time wallowing in his self-pity,” Mycroft borderline-snarled, the disdain visibly dripping from his mouth like acrid poison. “Do not think that dropping Rosie into his arms would change anything.”

“Of course,” John winced, content to keep mum for the rest of the journey to 221B.

It feels like forever, but mere minutes after they left John’s house, the familiar facade of Speedy’s Cafe comes into view. The car pulls up to the kerb, and John lets himself out of the car, going over to Rosie’s side to unbuckle her.

The front door of 221B opens, but to John’s disappointment, it is not Sherlock who steps out, but Mrs Hudson. 

“Oh, _John_ ,” the old lady exclaims, enveloping the doctor in a tight hug, which John returns with enthusiasm and stinging eyes. “Take good care of yourself out there, will you?”

“I’ve no choice, do I?” John fake-laughs, pulling away and patting his former landlady’s hand in reassurance. He turns back to the car to fetch Rosie, gifting his daughter with a tearful press of lips to her head, indulging in her lovely baby-smell and committing every detail of Rosie’s face to memory, from the tiniest flutter of her long lashes, to the perfect dimples dotting her chubby cheeks. “I’m going to miss you so much, little Miss,” John sighs, smiling as Rosie prods her stubby fingers into his hair. “Behave for Sherlock, and Nana Hudson, won’t you?”

Rosie laughs in response. “Sha- Sh’lah!” she screams, clapping her hands and positively bouncing in her car seat. “Dada,” she squeaks again, and John hurriedly hands her over to Mrs Hudson, unwilling to let himself cry in front of his daughter.

“I’ll be back before you know it,” he tells Mrs Hudson, one leg already back in the car that will bring him to the airport. “Please give Sherlock my best, and pass along my utmost thanks for agreeing to babysit Rosie.”

“Wait, John, this is for you,” the old lady tuts, rushing forward to pass him a neatly folded envelope with John’s name on it. “Don’t read it until you’re on the plane, Sherlock said.”

John acknowledges the simple request with a tiny nod, allowing himself the shortest of glances upwards, where the windows of 221B overlook Baker Street. He sees a hint of tall, dark silhouette nestled against a curtain before it withdraws back into the shadows. John gulps, his heart in his throat as his gaze drops back to that of the sight of his daughter, safe in the custody of one of the most important people in his life.

He can’t stay there any longer. With a brisk, “Goodbye, Mrs Hudson,” John blows a kiss to his daughter before returning to his seat in the car, closing the door and nodding at the driver. The car sets off, and it takes him a full five minutes before he realises that he is covering his eyes with one hand - hot, wet tears dampening it while his right clutches Sherlock’s letter where it sits by his side. 

Mycroft does not say a word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Depending on how you see it (and your tolerance to feels), I may or may have not left you all with another cliffhanger. For that, I am truly sorry. 
> 
> I can't promise it will never happen again though, because ANGST >:D


	10. Sherlock's Letter

_John._

_I couldn’t do it. I know I told you I’d erase everything that mattered, but in the end, I couldn’t do it. In the past couple of years, we’ve become so much a part of each other’s lives that I really can’t imagine my life without you anymore._

_I really do love you, and have honestly never loved anyone else like how I love you._

_I saw the look in your eyes that night when I made my confession. You were at a loss for words. You didn't even need to say a word, because I saw it all in your eyes - betrayal, confusion, shock. In that moment, I just wanted to crawl under a rock somewhere and hide. But now that I understand the gravity of what I've done, my actions have filled me with self-loathing and remorse._

_I have no excuse for doing what I did and saying "I'm sorry" hardly seems adequate. But if you could forgive me this time, John, I promise you this will never happen again. Both the suffering that I've caused you and the misery I feel now show me that letting my weaknesses take control of the moment at hand causes too much damage to both of us to ever want to do it again._

_I sincerely doubt it would benefit either one of us to give up on this relationship (or friendship, if you would prefer) yet because we've both invested so much of ourselves into it already, and the good memories we’ve created have far outnumbered the bad. What conflicts we've had in the past have been minor (kind-of) and we've been able to work through them with very little trouble._

_I would give anything to go back to where we once were - just doing mundane things like you cleaning up after me, you making the tea every time, me using up all the milk when you genuinely need some; I’m only joking, John. Don’t take it to heart - yet, isn’t what I just listed all true? I enjoy playing your favourite compositions on my violin and I appreciate every single compliment you throw my way after I prove the Yarders incompetent for the nth time._

_I know I'm really expecting a lot to ask you to leave everything that’s happened behind, but the alternative is too painful to even consider._

_If you’ve not figured what I’m trying to say by now, John, well, it doesn't surprise me._

_Oh,_ please. _Don’t roll your eyes at me._

_Yes, John. I’m asking that you move in back to 221B. You and Rosie, both. Having her around has been an unforeseen source of constant joy for me, and with you back where you belong, I can finally trust that you will be on the lookout for my wellbeing, that I no longer need concern myself with the return of my old habits._

_I’ll have my conductor of light with me, once again._

_Do think it through, John. The advantages far outweigh the disadvantages. I’ve listed each and every probability, and I would be glad to present you with the complete Venn diagram if you so wish._

_We’ll work our way around my feelings, or we can choose to let things run its course. You don’t have to reciprocate, John. I only need for you to be back home with me in Baker Street._

_And, please know, John, that I have forgiven you._

_I’ve forgiven you for everything that’s happened. I know that you weren’t yourself that day, in Culverton’s morgue. I forgive you for each and every time you’ve done me wrong, because even I know that it was my fault to begin with, and I can only hope that you will forgive me in return, for everything, most importantly: my two years away, and Mary’s death._

_I will be waiting for your return._

_Be safe, my John._

_Your friend,_

_Sherlock._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, that letter _sucked_ didn't it? So OOC it's not even funny. But my poor flu-wracked brain couldn't fix it so I had to put it up. Let's just ignore this pile of rubbish shall we  ><


	11. Chapter 11

The weekend crawls by, undisturbed by neither clients nor cases from the Yard; Sherlock doesn’t mind one bit, for he is then able to make full use of the two days to direct a small portion of his innate knowledge of the world towards the clueless toddler that is Rosie Watson. Sunday evening finds them winding down with a nice walk through Regent’s Park, followed by a messy-but-enjoyable dinner at Angelo’s, after which the two of them head back to 221B with a satisfied grin on both their faces.

“Time for bed, Watson,” Sherlock croons, laying the drowsy girl in her cot, tucking the blanket and arranging Rosie’s current favourite plush toy - a fuzzy bumblebee named simply “Bee” and given to her by yours truly - by her side. She sighs in that endearing, soft way of hers, before promptly nodding off to sleep. 

Sherlock doesn’t realise he has leaned forward to kiss her forehead until the moment he inhales her pure baby scent and pulls back to gaze down on her with a tightness in his chest. His head is awash with a confusing mix of feelings: adoration, anticipation and just a hint of heartbreak. He can’t comprehend why, but he is sure that the crux of the matter stems from the little girl’s father.

As if right on cue, Sherlock’s phone vibrates from its spot on the nearby table. He picks it up, his breath hitching at the name flashing on the top of the notification. It’s John.

“ **Can I come home?** ” the text says.

Sherlock smiles, dimming the light in Rosie’s – John’s - room and closing the door behind him, before making his way down the staircase.

 _Into battle_ , Sherlock’s heart helpfully supplies. He types out his reply.

“ _Yes, John. We’re waiting. – SH_ ”

***

John shows up at the threshold of 221B the following afternoon, unannounced, yet not unwelcome. 

To Sherlock’s credit, the detective was busy playing a piece on his Stradivarius whilst Rosie looked on, her bright eyes widened in awe, her thumb forgotten in her mouth, mid-suckle. John, having been in the military, was also not a stranger to moving around undetected, and is deeply aware of which of the 17 steps make tell-tale creaks on the way up to 221B. 

John stays silent behind him as Sherlock continues playing the rest of the song, his eyes closing of their own accord as he loses himself in the music, the melody haunting. He lets the notes flow through him, driven by everything he’s ever let himself feel in John’s presence, from the thrill of chasing down criminals to the fear of not knowing if he would ever get to return to John during his time away bringing down Moriarty’s network.

Sherlock has never laid bare his heart for the world to see like this, and he doubts it will be the last time, now that John is once more back in his life. If he is to be honest with himself, Sherlock finds the concept of being human all too-frightening, as if he is made all the weaker for it, and all the more vulnerable. Sometimes it is simply easier to not _feel_ , for when the occasion calls for it, Sherlock is able to distance himself enough from everything else and focus on what was important, especially when it came to solving cases for the Yard. 

Now nothing is more important in his life than _John_.

John Watson, the one person whom Sherlock loves with all his being and the one he’d ever hoped to be worthy of being loved by in return.

The song ends on a mournful note, uncertain and shaky, but as Sherlock opens his eyes to look down on little Rosie where she is clapping her chubby hands in delight and laughing a string of excited “ _Da_!”s and “ _Sh-lah_!”s, a moment later, his heart stutters in its beating as a familiar hand comes into contact with his back, right over where his frantic heart is.

The hand sweeps from his left to his right to settle on his right arm, unhesitant and purposeful in its journey. Its owner pulls ever so gently, and Sherlock lets himself be turned, and his gaze lands on his doctor, who stands so close that there is barely any empty space between them.

John’s eyes are trained on him, fierce in its intensity, and something about it makes Sherlock want to run away and build his walls back up before either of them can do something they might later regret. Maybe John sees Sherlock’s building panic in his eyes too, because his grip on Sherlock’s bicep tightens ever so slightly and he keeps pulling Sherlock in until the taller man has no choice but to lean in and stand still as John’s arms lift and wrap around him in a hug that feels neither firm nor reluctant; It is as if John wanted to give Sherlock the choice to pull away and reject the embrace.

Sherlock stiffens at first, still foreign to the concept of human touch bordering on intimacy, but eventually he relaxes into John’s hold, settling his cheek on the top of John’s head. His arms move automatically to return the hug, a small sigh escaping his lips as he accepts the fact that if there was one place in the world he wouldn’t mind staying in for the rest of his life, it was here, secure in John’s arms, where he could let his defences down and John wouldn’t think him any lesser for it.

Sherlock feels John shudder against him, and it is only when he registers the man’s uneven breathing does he realise that John is crying quietly, his whole body tense with the force of his restrained sobbing. He immediately pulls back, shushing the smaller man with a kiss to his forehead and wiping away his tears with his thumbs.

Sherlock’s heart shatters at the sight, understanding that John is not acting – they both know from past experience that John is a _terrible_ actor – and that it should require a great amount of distress for a man of John’s discipline and iron will to break down in front of somebody else.

While Sherlock works to comfort his friend, his eyes take in every minute detail: John’s eyes, though already red from crying, look more tired than Sherlock’s ever seen him. His normally tidy, slicked back hair is in disarray, as if John had been running his hands through them again and again; The worry lines where they decorate his familiar face are more pronounced, his mouth pulled in a deep grimace, as if every part of him are hurting. 

Sherlock can feel his eyes burning, tears threatening to spill – and spill they do, the detective pulling John back in and squeezing him tight, his mouth pressed to John’s hair, the familiar scent of him comforting, a healing balm for his heartache. He releases his hold on all of the pain he’s bottled up tight, watching them crumble into dust and escape out the open door of his mind palace as his love for the broken man in his arms engulfs him. 

“G- god, Sherlock, please forgive me,” John moans, his fingers grasping, scratching at Sherlock’s dressing gown. He burrows himself even further into Sherlock’s embrace and Sherlock lets him, overwhelmed at how stricken his friend sounds, gasping for air, like he is unable to get enough oxygen, like he is on the verge of a panic attack. 

“It’s alright John, _shhh_ , you’re alright, I forgave you, please, I forgave you a long time ago,” Sherlock chants into his hair, letting John take comfort in his presence. “You’re back now, that’s all that matters.”

“Forgive me,” John repeats, and Sherlock is undone.


	12. Apology from me, the writer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NOT AN UPDATE.

Hello dear lovely readers.

I know, I haven't updated in almost 2 months now, and I can't apologise enough.

After the last update, my work life went haywire. The clinic I work at moved in to a new building, a multi-storey one, and coupled with moving all the equipment and handling the transfer of patients and running up and down one floor to the other, I found myself too worn out to sit in front of my laptop and churn out a chapter worth letting you guys read. It didn't help that the worst case of writer's block slammed its way into my head. I got flustered over nothing and everything and my anxiety and moodswings grabbed hold onto me and wouldn't let go. 

I feel like I've let you guys down with the huge delay, but a promise was a promise, and I promised I would finish this story. 

So I'm here to let you know that I will finally be able to put up the next chapter by next weekend (23rd/24th sept) and we'll be back with the boys hopefully working on who they were to each other and figuring out how they could heal from all I've put them through in this story.

So yeah.. If you're still here following my story, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. I can't thank you enough for being patient with me.

Love,  
wtsnhlms <3


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have the best readers in the world. Thank you so much for all your support and understanding, and for waiting patiently for the updates to this story. I couldn't have carried on without you guys <3 <3 <3 
> 
> On a brighter note, the next update will be on *edit*Friday, and I fully intend to have the boys get a move on with a fresh start and - of course - the romance soon after, maybe? Yay!
> 
> And and! I am always open to criticism! Two months away from this fic may have set me off plot-wise, things may not make sense or are not realistic. I've never claimed to be writing my John and Sherlock as perfectly in character as in canon sooooooo don't be afraid to shoot me a comment below so as to steer me in the right direction, yeah? :)

John hadn’t gone far, that weekend. He’d changed his mind, opting to visit Harry a few towns over, instead of taking a short trip out of the country. She’d been weary at first, having John at her doorstep after having spent a considerable amount of time apart. But she’d let him in, her instincts as elder sister taking over, having seen his crestfallen state, fussing over him; John had let her, collapsing onto her couch with his head hung low and shoulders slumped in dejection and shame.

He told her everything she needed to know. He didn’t leave any stone unturned, and when he’d finished, his chest tight with the effort to hold in his grief, Harry simply tutted and pulled her into a tight embrace, shushing his pitiful, trembling form with her gentle hands. It had been a long time since either of them sought comfort from the other, but John was eternally grateful nonetheless to know that his sister was there for him, no matter what.

She’d sent him on his way the next morning with nothing more than a few quiet words and a kiss to his forehead, just like she always did when she watched him walk to school on his own all those years ago - the two of them having only started fending for their own selves after their mother disappeared and their father started coming home drunk and violent almost every night, too upset at himself and too plastered to care about his children’s wellbeing.

John’s made himself a vow not to follow in his father’s footsteps, but recent events proved otherwise.

He hates himself all the more for it.

Now as he stands here in the arms of the man who means the world to him - the remnants of Sherlock’s melancholy violin playing still drifting in the calm air around them, punctuated by the adorable gurgling from his happy, oblivious daughter - John allows himself a shred of hope for redemption.

In John’s eyes, it starts with Sherlock’s forgiveness, and while the man in question has readily bestowed it upon him, John is still unable to accept that Sherlock was so quick to grant him absolution when, by right, after all the hurt that John has dealt him, forgiveness should be the last and hardest step on the road to reconciliation.

Grief and acceptance were the first and second phases respectively; While John thinks he has grieved enough for his mistakes and all he has put Sherlock through, a small part of him still refuses to look back and believe that the monster who punched, kicked Sherlock bloody on the floor of that morgue and proceeded to abandon him afterwards lived in John's head.

John whimpers; Sherlock’s hold on him tightens, the taller man rubbing John’s back in a soothing, calming pattern in an obvious attempt to encourage John to regulate his breathing, which he soon does, still unable to bring himself to pull back from the embrace, lest the tight cocoon of warmth and affection they’ve built around them shatter and John’s world comes crashing down again.

The two men stand there, wound around each other for what seems like ages until they hear the unstable pitter-patter of tiny hands and knees approaching them, quickly followed by a tiny grabby hand latching onto Sherlock’s leg, followed by John’s, and finally with a mildly entertaining huff, Rosie pulls herself up and starts demanding in her baby talk as to _why can’t I have a cuddle, too?_

Hearing Sherlock’s chuckle against his temple thaws just a little bit of the ice of self-hatred John’s encased himself in, and before can even react, Sherlock has released his hold on John and promptly bent down, scooping Rosie up and into the air above their heads, the little girl squealing in surprise and delight; Her eyes crinkle up just like John’s does when he’s amazed by something the detective has just done, unable to resist rewarding Sherlock with a wide, toothy grin and another one of his verbal compliments.

It is obvious to anyone with eyes that Sherlock loves Rosie very much, and vice versa, and John doesn’t know what could have possessed him to think of a future where something untoward happens to him, but then he’d have nothing to worry about because Rosie would still have Sherlock, and he knows Sherlock would never let anything happen to his godchild –

“John?” Sherlock’s low voice cuts into his spiralling thoughts.

“Hm? Oh, sorry, I- I just,” he gazes up at Sherlock’s frowning face before he swallows the lump in his throat and looks away at the curtains fluttering in the light wind blowing through Baker Street. “Sorry.”

He feels Sherlock’s hand squeeze lightly at his elbow, the welcome touch grounding. “What were you thinking about?” the man asks, though John doesn’t doubt for one second that Sherlock already has an inkling that it wasn’t anything particularly pleasant.

“You don’t want to know,” John sighs, a mild laugh escaping him, high and almost hysterical. The creases between Sherlock’s brows deepen, and John resists the urge to smooth it away with his fingertips.

“Tell me,” Sherlock says, turning to nuzzle his nose against Rosie’s temple where the toddler is propped up on his left hip, twirling her tiny fingers through his curly hair. “Let me in.”

“I don’t want to talk about it. Please, just- leave it.”

John receives a glare in response. He cowers under the intensity of that piercing blue-green gaze, another apology quickly forming on his lips as he realises that he is doing a piss-poor job at proving himself worthy of the second chance Sherlock had readily given him the moment the younger man accepted his request to come home barely twelve hours earlier.

“John, now is not the time for your ego to get in the way. Mine is more than enough for the two of us. If you truly want things to go back the way they were before, then you need to trust that I want to know each and every time something bothers you, no matter how unpleasant it is. It’s time we be honest with each other. What’s done is done. There’s no turning back.” Sherlock steps away, the air between them suddenly fraught with tension. “Or do you think so little of me now?”

“ _No_ , Sherlock-“ John’s eyes widen at that, quickly moving to close that gap between them, wanting badly to take it all back and start all over again. _Stupid, stupid, stupid!_ He berates himself, relieved that Sherlock stays exactly where he is, handing Rosie over to John when the toddler starts wriggling in his arms, reaching out for her father.

“Your daddy’s not going anywhere, Watson,” Sherlock sighs in that voice he reserves for conversation with Rosie. “Is he?”

“No, no, I’m exactly where I want to be,” John says in a rush, eyes lowering in mortification. He cuddles his daughter close, breathing in her lovely baby scent, the warmth and weight of her in his arms doing wonders to his stammering heart.

“She’s due for her nap very soon. I had Mycroft’s minions pack enough of your clothes for a week’s stay. What happens afterwards is all up to you.”

“Oh. Well, thank you. I'll bring her upstairs then..?” John's question trails off as Sherlock's expression morphs from one of uncertainty to sheepishness. John glances around, noting the trail of soft toys on the sitting room floor leading straight to Sherlock's bedroom. “Wait... Her cot isn't in my old room?”

“No, I had her cot situated in my bedroom so she was within reach if and when she woke hungry in the middle of the night and I was in the kitchen experimenting. And before you ask, no, I did not conduct any toxic experiments, nor anything involving dead or putrefying flesh. I wouldn’t do anything that may compromise Rosie’s environment,” Sherlock admitted, cheeks flushing slightly at the show of affection. “Also, your bedroom had barely been touched since you moved in with Mary. Mrs Hudson only did the necessary dusting once in a while.”

John’s heart sinks at Sherlock’s last words - the idea of his room having been left as it was before John chose Mary, as if Sherlock could not bear to disturb the evidence of a life left behind - but he quashes down the new wave of guilt that threatens to wash over him, choosing to nod sagely and offer Sherlock a tiny, sad smile as he carries the drowsy toddler over to her cot in Sherlock’s bedroom. 

Rosie barely put up a fight as he shushed and gently lowers her onto her little bed, her eyes already heavy-lidded and her lips suckling her right thumb. John tucks her in all tight and warm, his heart thudding in his chest as he thinks, _You deserve all the best the world has to offer, my darling Rosamund, and you deserve a better man as your father. I love you._

John bends forward to press his lips in a soft kiss in the middle of his daughter’s forehead, the gesture lingering and tasting of salt from his tears.

***

The two men barely talk for the rest of the day, seemingly in mutual understanding that they both require time to reacquaint themselves with the idea of co-existing in the shared living space once again. 

Try as he might, John is not surprised to find himself falling into his old habits; It is as if he never left Baker Street in the first place. He prepares two cups of tea, sits in the familiar red armchair, and even opts to tap away at his laptop, helpfully brought over by Mycroft’s men.

Sherlock chooses to spend the quiet evening at the kitchen table, poring over his notes on the most random of topics, only making a sound of affirmation whenever John asks if he would like more tea, or if he would like to have Chinese takeaway for dinner.

When Rosie wakes from her nap with a loud whimper just as the clock strikes eight at night, Sherlock is already on his feet, his dressing gown a torrent of material behind him as he walks briskly into his bedroom to soothe the frightened toddler. John stays close behind, peeking around the half-opened bedroom door to watch as Sherlock lifts Rosie into his arms with practiced ease, ever so careful, as if Rosie is the most fragile thing he’s ever come across.

The detective shushes her cries with his lips pressed firmly to her temple, one firm hand holding her to his shoulder and the other rubbing her back with just the right amount of pressure as he hums the softest of melodies and sways on his feet. 

John can hear the thudding of his heart in his ears. As Rosie’s cries start to taper off into the occasional wet sniffle, John’s feet act of their own accord, propelling him forward until he is pressed gently into Sherlock’s side. Rosie looks up at him with wet eyes, the hand not grasping Sherlock’s sleepshirt reaching to grasp John’s pinky finger instead. 

She holds on tight to both.

It takes another ten minutes for her to drift off again to sleep, but over her drooping head of downy curls, Sherlock’s eyes meet John’s in a look so open and vulnerable, that John takes a deep breath, gathers all of his courage, and swings his left hand upward to find Sherlock’s in the dark where it rests on Rosie’s lower back.

He feels Sherlock’s cold, spindly fingers, and ever so gently, fits his own roughened ones in between to clasp their hands together - it isn’t much, but if Sherlock’s answering upward twitch of his mouth is any indication, it’s a good start for the both of them.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From this chapter forward, the story will be told purely from Sherlock's POV. I find it easier to convey the story that way, as I know how Sherlock feels, from time to time. 
> 
> We're finally getting somewhere people! I hope you enjoy this chapter very much. My everlasting thanks and love to all of you <3

It hasn’t been long since their run-in with Culverton. Neither has it been that long since Mary Morstan shot Sherlock in the chest, and even longer still since the day he returned to John Watson with nothing more than a battered torso and a hopeful heart.

Scars are now a prominent feature of Sherlock Holmes’s person; Each and every one of them tell a different story, like the small rounded marks on the inside of his left elbow that stemmed from drug use and the numerous streaks of raised damaged flesh - most are still in the process of healing - peppering the whole of his back resulting from the harsh blows Sherlock received at the hands of his captors during his time away in Eastern Europe.

John does not need to know about those scars.

Sherlock, on the other hand, does know John has only one: the angry mess of scarred tissue adorning his left shoulder, a constant reminder to the both of them of how one single moment can change the course of their lives. 

Sherlock loves John’s scar. That single imperfection is a testament to the doctor’s bravery, strength, selflessness and iron-will. 

John received that scar because he was working hard to save an injured soldier in the midst of a hailstorm of bullets. John has saved so many lives as a doctor and a soldier, but most importantly, as a friend, he has saved Sherlock, saved him from his demons. 

Sherlock likes to think that he’s saved John in return.

Now as he stands in front of the bathroom mirror, eyes trained on John’s reflection in the glass where the man is staring at Sherlock’s bare back, the detective can’t help but think, _You weren’t supposed to know_.

It’s the morning after John returned to Baker Street. Half-dressed and drowsy. Sherlock had entered the bathroom from the kitchen after fixing Rosie’s bottle of milk - the toddler is due to wake in approximately seventeen minutes, if Sherlock has monitored her sleeping patterns properly - and he had promptly forgotten to close the door behind him.

Neither man as much as move a muscle. Sherlock breathes shallowly, his heart rate picking up out of their own accord as his brain screams at him to either do something to rectify the situation, or god forbid Sherlock does this - _flee_.

John’s eyes are widened almost comically, though nothing about that moment is funny. His jaw is clenched, his hands in tight fists against the sides of his body, his forehead creases visible. Sherlock thinks he can see a vein angrily pulsing in John’s temple, and he is not surprised when he finds himself overwhelmed with the need to crowd the older man into his arms and assure him that whatever he’s seen is not actually there, that he is only imagining it.

Instead, Sherlock settles for standing still, waiting to see what John will do next, now that he has seen damning evidence of all Sherlock had let himself suffer through if it meant that he could keep his friends safe.

It takes a whole minute for John to speak up, and the words that came out are not what Sherlock was expecting. He’d predicted that John would ask what caused them, or who. Instead John, clever, clever, _clever_ John, seems to have worked it out all by himself and instead appears to be on the verge of another nervous breakdown as he says, “ _I_ did that to you.”

“John, it’s nothing.”

“ _I did that to you._ ”

“John-” Sherlock cuts in, wanting badly to rip his own hair out.

“I’m not stupid, Sherlock. I’ve seen my fair share of patients with a background of domestic abuse, to know that those things-” he stabs a finger in the direction of Sherlock’s back, “Were caused by someone repeatedly whipping your back. For fuck's sake, Sherlock-!”

Sherlock winces at the alarming tone in John’s voice. Breaking eye contact through the mirror, he attempts to escape through the bathroom door that opens to his bedroom, only to have his plan thwarted as John plants himself in his way, his eyes burning with intensity and his lips pinched tight in barely restrained rage.

“This happened when you were away, didn’t it?” John asks, his voice low, almost inaudible.

Sherlock doesn’t answer because he doesn’t want to. This does not help things whatsoever, because John has long since been able to read Sherlock like an open book, and Sherlock’s silence seems to be the only answer he needed.

“Sherlock, I _tackled_ and then _pinned_ you to the floor the night you came back!” John continues, his chest heaving, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. “Fuck, why- why didn’t you tell me, Sherlock? Why didn’t you say something?!”

“Well, what did you want me to say? Something along the lines of: ' _Ouch John, you may want to go easy on me, I'm still bleeding from the wounds on my back_ '?”

"Bleeding-! Yes you could have at least said that!" John splutters. 

Sherlock takes a step back, his hand waving in a dismissive gesture. "It didn't matter at the time."

"Of course it did! Yes, I wanted to kill you for putting me through that hell for two years and then showing up like nothing had happened, but I'd never have pushed you to the floor if I had known you were injured," John huffs, his stance almost confrontational, his face flushed with exasperation. He heaves a long sigh, visibly trying to rein in his anger as he reaches out for Sherlock. "What else did they do to you, Sherlock? Please, I need to know."

Sherlock turns around, grabbing the dressing gown hanging at the back of the door and slipping it on, hiding the sad state of his back from John's gaze. "Broke a finger or two, tried to drown me to make me talk, strung me up like a ragdoll. That's all I can remember from my time in isolation," he murmurs, staring at anything but his friend. He feels John's hand cupping his elbow with his thumb rubbing the skin back and forth, back and forth, the gesture obviously meant to be soothing.

He feels John's presence right beside him, radiating warmth and concern. "Are the bastards dead?" the doctor whispers into the still air between them, to which Sherlock answers with a small nod.

"Mycroft had them taken care of." John's gentle grip on him tightens and relaxes as the doctor pulls him in so Sherlock has no choice but to look at him. John's gaze is more open now, dark blue irises dilated to the point of black and the tiniest hint of wetness at the corners of his eyes.

"That's- that's good. If I ever came across those responsible, I would have had them all by their throats for laying a finger on you."

"John Watson, noble to the end," Sherlock says, finding it hard to tear his eyes away from the sight of the man before him. "I'm not your damsel in distress, waiting for my knight in shining armor to come rescue me."

"Yes, well, maybe not a _damsel_ , per se, but you can still be such a diva in your worst moments," John laughs softly, prompting an eye-roll from the detective.

Sherlock doesn't reply to this statement either, because he knows it's true, funnily enough. John continues rubbing the inside of his elbow, and Sherlock wants badly for this moment to end because for the life of him, he doesn't know what he's supposed to _do_. Rosie is almost due to wake any moment now, and if Sherlock can get John to kindly let him go so he can get himself ready before the little one calls for him-

"Sherlock," John says, moving, letting go of the younger man's elbow, only to clasp both of Sherlock's bigger hands in his own smaller, sturdier ones. The rigid set of John's shoulders betray the thrumming of his body, but thrumming with what, exactly, Sherlock can't tell. 

John continues, "I still wish you'd taken me along with you, when you went away. You wouldn't have been alone, and I would have been there by your side every step of the way. Perhaps I wouldn't have been able to stop you from the torture they subjected you to, but at least I would have shouldered the burden and the pain with you, because- because you see, Sherlock, I have been in love with you since before you chose to die for me, and probably after we were at the pool with Moriarty. I loved you and I would have followed you to the very ends of the Earth if it meant I could keep you. I loved you then, and I still love you now."

Despite having heard the words uttered out of John's mouth the other night in the hospital, Sherlock is not entirely convinced that John is being sincere. After all, he would rather not have a repeat of what happened when he first declared his love as John was falling apart in his arms the morning after the Culverton incident.

Sherlock clears his throat, his palms getting slightly sweaty where they are cradled in John's steady hold. "Then why did you react the way you did when I told you I loved you?"

"I wasn't expecting you to proclaim your love for me. I never saw it coming, Sherlock. You remember, that very first day, when you made sure I knew that you were _married to your work_ and then over the course of our friendship, you demonstrated that you're not one for relationships?" Sherlock looks away, slightly sheepish as his face warms under John's rant. "I sincerely thought that there were absolutely no chances of your returning my feelings, so I kept my love locked away, always there but well-hidden under guise of my friendship with you. I could live in unrequited love with you, Sherlock, if it meant that you would allow me the privilege of being your best friend."

"Whenever someone assumed we were a couple, you were quick to rebuke that you were _not gay_."

"There's more to labels that just plain old 'gay' and 'straight', Sherlock. Surely you know that?" John teases, his tongue darting out to lick his lips, Sherlock both loves and loathes when John does that with his tongue. "I'm bisexual. 'Gay' just isn't quite the most accurate term to describe who I am."

Sherlock is rooted to the spot as his mind attempts to keep up with the onslaught of new data. His mind palace is trembling on its foundations as the detective scrambles to process and file away the conversation they've just had.

"So... Care to explain your end of this great big cock-up we have?" John prompts, his mouth tugging at the corners.

"I- I didn't come to the realisation that I may have harboured feelings for you that extended beyond platonic until the moment I found out that I had to fake my death to keep you alive. Human emotions, as you know, are nothing but tedium for the workings of my mind so the grief and sorrow I felt at the thought of making you watch as I fell from the roof struck me harder than they should have. I did not want to go through with the plan as it meant that I would leave you behind. I have studied enough of human behaviour to know that what I was about to do could possibly leave a huge impact on you, and I was right. I doubted myself over and over, waiting for that moment, but the thought of you dead by a sniper's bullet to the head was simply _unacceptable_. I wouldn't live in a world where you ceased to exist, John. I couldn't. Thus I died, so you could live." 

As Sherlock's words bounce off the bathroom walls, the pitiful sounds of hitched, clogged breathing accompany them. The detective brings his right hand to his eyes, and it comes away wet with salt and tears.

 _Oh_ , he thinks, looking down where John's own eyes are spilling forth.

"I love you," says the man who's pulled him into a tight embrace from which Sherlock has no intention on leaving. John's face is buried in the base of his neck, where Sherlock can feel moisture dripping onto his exposed chest. "I love you, you madman."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seems quiet around here! Where's everybody gone? Teehee. Still, I hope you're all doing well <3


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First night at Angelo's, redux ;)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been miserable these few days, people are annoying and they don't get that I can't change my personality and/or the way I am and can't they just leave me alone?? P.S if you're wondering why I'm like this, look up the INFJ personality type. You'll get why I'm sensitive about this all the time. Extroverts don't try to understand introverts, and that is why people like me suffer in silence.
> 
> Anyway. When I'm down, the fluff (ALL THE FLUFF) comes out to play, so there you go dear lovely readers, FLUFFY JOHNLOCK. TOOTH-ROTTING FLUFF ALERT.

Later that evening, John returns to 221B from the latest session with his therapist with a new light in his eyes and a single purple hyacinth held delicately in his right hand. 

Sherlock receives the flower with wide eyes, his mind already helpfully supplying him with the meaning of said flower - _forgiveness, regret, sorrow_ \- and never mind that he is covered almost head to toe in baking flour with a giggling Rosie at his feet; Sherlock lets the doctor pull him in, and the two men embrace for an uncertain amount of time before Rosie squawks her protest and the two break apart, the detective taking the chance to place a firm kiss on John’s forehead as a silent thank-you. 

“Sherlock, I love you. Will you allow us to start anew?” John asks, eyeing the flower in Sherlock’s grasp and meeting his gaze from beneath his lashes before pulling forth another flower from the inside pocket of his jacket.

A red tulip.

_Declaration of love._

Sherlock swallows the thick lump that has suddenly made itself known in his throat, finding himself not hesitating to nod his head with unrestrained enthusiasm. “Am I being courted?” he squeaks, the uncharacteristic noise startling him. John responds with a nervous laugh, rubbing the back of his neck, a lovely flush blooming across his face.

“I believe so,” John answers, the twinkle in his deep blue eyes pulling Sherlock in. “God knows you deserve it, Sherlock. After all I’ve done to you, you at least deserve to see the best of what my romantic side has to offer. Granted the ‘I love you’s’ normally come after a successful courtship, but since when have we done things the conventional way?”

“I can’t possibly argue with that, John,” Sherlock chuckles, a welcome warmth blooming in his chest and spreading through the rest of his body, leaving his extremities tingling. At their feet, Rosie thumps her hands impatiently, sending more baking flour everywhere. John grins at the sight, bending down to pick up his inquisitive daughter, seemingly unbothered at getting his clothes in a mess in the process. He croons to her and she answers with her typical baby talk, patting John’s cheek with a flour-caked hand until half of his face is ghostly white.

Sherlock stares, and laughs. John merrily joins in, and the little girl in his arms pauses, utters an amusing-sounding _harrumph_ and assaults her father some more.

“Let’s go out for dinner tonight. Angelo’s at eight. I- I’ve called him up beforehand. What- enough of that, sweetheart,” John chokes through the flour permeating the air around them, gently grabbing Rosie’s arm to stop the powdery assault and heading towards the kitchen sink. He turns the tap, collecting a handful of water and cleaning his face before turning back to face Sherlock once more. “Is that alright with you, Sherlock?”

“Of course, John,” Sherlock replies, grinning. “Will Rosamund be coming along?”

“I was hoping that it’d be just me and you, just for this time around. Not that I don’t want Rosie to be there with us, but I’d rather spend our first proper date laying all the attention on you, and not worrying if Rosie will start throwing food everywhere,” John laughs once again, clearly recalling that one incident weeks ago that ended up with a very apologetic John and Sherlock, a delighted Rosie and a forgiving Angelo with nothing to offer but pure adoration for the toddler.

“She’ll be visiting with Mrs Hudson, then?” 

“Yup,” John says, settling Rosie into her high chair before sidling up to the detective. “I asked her before I came up. She was delighted to have Rosie over for company, and even moreso when I told her we were going on a date. She also managed to hint that she’d be happy to keep Rosie there overnight, if need be.” The last sentence John gushes out in one breath, his eyes averted to a spot to Sherlock’s right and the slightest hint of colour dotting his cheeks.

Sherlock groans, already dreading bumping into his landlady and having her gush to him how happy she was that the two of them had finally ‘ _got their heads out of their arses_ ’ and gotten together.

Well, he and John aren’t together yet, per se, but maybe after tonight, their relationship may - or may not - officially cross the threshold from platonic to romantic. Sherlock would be lying to himself if he says he didn’t feel any different at the thought of being in a romantic relationship with John.

To be honest, the detective feels excited, unsure and fearful all at once; and as John turns to entertain and clean up after Rosie, Sherlock smiles to himself, grabbing the nearest clean beaker near him to fill up with water and placing the two flowers inside.

***

Three hours later, Sherlock stands in front of the mirror in his room, eyeing his reflection from head to toe. He’s dressed in his maroon dress shirt - one of John’s absolute favourite shirts on him, this Sherlock knows to a tee - and an all-black suit. He still has half an hour to go before the two of them are due to head out to Angelo’s, but Sherlock could not resist taking the extra time to properly groom himself: shaving the hint of stubble just barely shadowing his face and styling the curls on his head so that each and every strand stays put in impeccable waves.

On the outside, Sherlock may appear perfectly calm, but internally, the detective is on the verge of pulling his hair out in anxiousness. He has no relevant experience whatsoever in regards to romance, and John seems fully intent on making up for all the missed opportunities between them and romancing the hell out of the man from now on, beginning with the dinner later that evening.

He’s heard of people experiencing ‘cold feet’ just before their wedding and well, if he didn’t know any better, Sherlock might think he’s exhibiting symptoms of said phenomenon at that very moment, which is ridiculous as Sherlock Holmes simply does not get jittery over the merest of occasions, and they’re only going on a date, not getting hitched.

Just as he’s starting to contemplate begging off dinner, two, three successive knocks sound on his bedroom door; Sherlock moves to open it, his jaw dropping open at the sight of the former army doctor before him.

John is dressed in a suit Sherlock has never even seen before - midnight blue, coupled with a crisp, white shirt - and the outfit brings out perfectly the sparkle in John’s eyes, the blonde of his hair, and not to mention, the brilliance of his smile; so much so that Sherlock has to physically refrain himself from melting into a pool of enchanted consulting detective.

Sherlock Holmes, _swooning_. How very pedestrian of his transport.

Something in his expression must have given the man away because John doesn’t stop smiling, huffing a small laugh as he reaches out for Sherlock’s right hand, clasping it in between both of his own. “Are you alright?” John asks, squeezing the hand in his hold lightly.

It takes exactly five heartbeats for the detective to find his voice. “Don’t be daft, John. Of course I am.” He rolls his eyes as if to emphasise the point, but John, dear, sweet John, only chuckles once more as he takes a step closer to close up the empty space between them.

Sherlock watches the minute movement with wide eyes, finding it increasingly difficult to breathe at the close proximity. This is nothing considering as they’ve embraced a couple times before this, but the circumstances have changed, they’ve exchanged declarations of love for the other and all acts of intimacy between the two of them are from now on have taken a whole other meaning.

Maybe Sherlock’s brain had gone offline without warning, because the next thing he knew, John is kissing the knuckles of his right hand, the touches featherlight and all-consuming. 

Sherlock lets out an embarrassing squeak of surprise.

“You look amazing,” John grins, fixing his gaze onto Sherlock’s as he lowers their hands. His posture is ramrod straight, shoulders pushed back and chest puffed out as he says this, and Sherlock can’t help the warm tingling in his fingertips, followed closely by the heated flush of his cheeks. “You’re a sight in that shirt. Just so you know, Sherlock.”

“Y-y- you too, John. T-that is to say, you’re looking very-” Sherlock stutters, his bottom lip stinging from how hard he’s biting on it. “- handsome.”

“I’m glad you think so, Sherlock. Well, it’s time to go. All set?” John asks, flashing him another brilliant smile and a wink that almost - _almost_ \- shatters Sherlock’s resolve. He makes to turn back towards the corridor, not letting go of the younger man’s hand.

“Yes, John.” Sherlock answers, willing his feet to move and follow John out the door, but not before twisting around and checking his reflection in the mirror once more. John _tsk_ ’s from behind him, shaking his head in fond exasperation. After collecting their respective coats to bundle up from the chilly autumn air, the two men lock up the flat and thanks to Sherlock’s taxi-hailing skills, are soon making their way to Angelo’s.

***

Angelo greets them at the door with his usual flair and an unusually high amount of enthusiasm, quickly ushering them to their customary table at the window with a hurried promise that their food is already being prepared as they speak. Sherlock cannot help but notice the table already has a candle - bigger than the normal adorning the other tables in the restaurant, mind you - and a intricate vase holding two more flowers.

“Red carnations,” Sherlock breathes, staring at the vibrant folds of the blooms - one a lighter red and the other as deep and dark as the colour of blood - as John settles in the cushioned seat to his left. He notes that the doctor is seated exactly 4.5 inches closer to him than normal, so their clasped hands on the table are almost touching, and he is also keenly aware of the warmth emanating from John’s leg where it is brushing his own under the table. 

His nerves are set alight, and Sherlock can’t help but worry that he may not make it through dinner without spontaneously combusting. _God, what is wrong with me?_ The detective cries out internally, mystified that John has seemingly turned him into a creature thoroughly affected and sensitised by another’s touch. He pulls himself back into the present just in time for John to ask: “Yes, they are. What do they signify, love?”

The pet name throws the detective off once again, but he recovers quickly, throwing open the file in his mind palace where he’s stored the meanings of all the species of flowers he’s aware of, courtesy of an intricate police case from some years ago; Mind palace-Sherlock pulls out and holds up the sought-after paper in triumph.

The detective smiles wide as he recites the significance of each of the flowers. “The light red one symbolises admiration and heartache whilst the deeper red carnation stands for deep love and affection.” 

“Brilliant,” John praises, and the open expression on his face immediately reminds Sherlock of that very first fateful night in Angelo’s all those years ago, where the two of them were none the wiser. “Want to know why I chose these two, Sherlock?”

Sherlock is saved from answering the question by Angelo arriving with their favourite pasta dishes, accompanied by two glasses and an impressive bottle of Merlot. Sherlock raises an eyebrow at the choice of wine, but Angelo just shrugs and scampers away, and John simply beams at him even more.

 _Is it at all possible for one human being to radiate so much pure light?_ Sherlock ponders alarmingly, fidgeting under John’s gaze. It is not unpleasant, but intense enough that he can’t help but squirm a little bit under the attention. It is as if John-the-soldier has come to the forefront, undeterred and intent on his next conquest. The thought of being under that gaze in a more intimate setting comes unbidden to the fore, and Sherlock hurriedly pushes the thought away lest he embarrass himself. He clears his throat and shakes his head slowly from side to side, all the while maintaining the eye contact.

John reaches out once more for his left hand, and Sherlock lets him.

“To cut the long story short, since we both know you hate it when I’m long winded; The paler-coloured one represents what I felt for you that very first time we came here to Angelo’s, and the darker one quite simply tells of how my feelings have evolved for you over the countless times we’ve returned to this restaurant. The deep red carnation symbolises all that I have to offer you tonight, Sherlock,” John proclaims, his eyes suspiciously misty in the dim lighting of their surroundings. “That very first night, you’d already enraptured me; There you were, beautiful and clever and you were so out of this world, Sherlock, that when I couldn’t sleep a wink that night because I was struggling to comprehend that you were real, and not just a figment of my imagination. I hope you’d remember why ‘heartache’ came into play - for me - that night?”

Sherlock picks at his pasta with a fork, his face flushed with slight embarrassment. “I said something about the Work and myself.”

“Bingo,” John laughs, and if there’s one thing that Sherlock would like to hear during his every waking moment, it’s that low, cheeky rumble of John’s. It never fails to make his heart skip a beat and beam like a shy teenager. John continues, the register of his voice even lower this time as he clears his throat, licks his lips. “So… don’t have a girlfriend then?”

 _God, there’s that tongue of his again_. Sherlock blinks, his mental faculties already slow on the uptake. John just sits there with a small smile, as if he’s aware of how much he’s thrown the detective for the loop already. He picks up his own fork and scoops some of the pasta into his mouth, calmly chewing away, smirking when Sherlock realises what he’s expected to say next.

“G- girlfriend? No, not really my area,” Sherlock states, still twirling away at his pasta.

John’s fork stops in its ministrations. “Oh, right. Do you have a boyfriend?” John picks up his glass, sipping at the wine. Sherlock stares as his adam’s apple bobs in the candlelight. “..which is fine by the way.”

“I know it’s fine,” Sherlock recites, the fact that they’re replaying that first night sending an odd thrill through him. He takes a deep audible breath, gripping tight to the hand clasped in his. “In fact, I might have a boyfriend, yeah.”

John raises an eyebrow in response, the man quite clearly struggling not to grin over the rim of his glass of wine. “‘Might’, you say?”

“Mmhmm.”

“Do I know this maybe-boyfriend, then? What is he like?” John asks, taking on the most innocent of pretend-smiles Sherlock’s ever seen anyone pull off.

“You might know him. He has an appalling fondness for jumpers, drinks too much tea, is a war hero and has a penchant for chasing after careless consulting detectives.” Sherlock is starting to enjoy this way too much, if the amount of giggling he’s sneaked in between the words is any indication.

“He sounds like an interesting fellow.”

“He is, he’s the most interesting person I’ve ever come across; so much so that he’s almost still entirely a mystery to me, one that I find myself trying to solve up till this day.” Something about Sherlock’s answer seems to have affected the other man, but the look in the doctor’s eyes is gone as quick as it came.

“Wait, but I vaguely remember you saying you were the only consulting detective in the world. Now, you said this fellow chases after consulting detectives, and as far as I know, there are two men who do that: a certain detective inspector and some ex-soldier named John Watson,” John clicks his tongue, thumbing his lip, as if deep in thought. Sherlock adores him all the more for it.

“I can, quite confidently, tell you that it is not the detective inspector.” Sherlock takes another sip of his wine, the tartness of the flavour burning a welcome path over his tastebuds and down his throat.

“Ah, I see. It is that John Watson, then. He’s your boyfriend, you say?” John quips. “Lucky bastard.”

“Who’s the ‘lucky bastard’? Me?” Sherlock asks, positively bouncing in his seat, caught up in the flirting game and eager to reach the conclusion. 

“No, that John is. He probably has no idea how much of a catch you are.”

Sherlock blushes even more at the directness of that statement, but he gathers himself to say what he knows John wants to hear. “He probably doesn’t, mainly because he hasn’t asked if I’d have him as my boyfriend, yet.”

John positively _growls_. “Well then, looks like I’ve to do the job for him.” John drops his fork, takes another swig of his wine, and quickly, but gently, takes hold of both of Sherlock’s trembling hands. He looks up, and the fire Sherlock can see in those cobalt blue irises take his breath away. John’s face is aglow in anticipation, his smile blinding and his grip on Sherlock’s hands are steady and sure.

Sherlock knows that this is what he wants, what he needs with his very soul. They’re long overdue for this change, and he is ready to take that next step with this incredible man by his side. How he loves John Watson, with all of his heart and soul.

He lets John’s next words wash over him in a blanket of comfort, and he never wants to let go, never wants to leave this bubble of contentment they’ve finally found for themselves.

“Sherlock Holmes, I love you. Will you accept me as your friend, your lover, your confidante? Will you grant me this wish, for all I ask is that you be mine?”

It’s what most ordinary minds will find short and sweet, but after all they’ve been through, direct and straight to the point is all they need to be in the end. 

_John Watson, ever the romantic._

“Yes, John,” Sherlock whispers to the still air between them. “What you’ve just said is more romantic than all your cheesy romantic poems to your exes combined.”

“Shut up, Sherlock,” John laughs-cries, and Sherlock can’t help but give a teary smile in return and before he’s fully aware of it, John’s lips are on his, and Sherlock can’t do much but kiss the man back, and their first kiss tastes of wine and tears and hope and love, but he can’t ask for anything more, and he finally belongs to John, John belongs to him, and isn’t being in love the most wonderful thing Sherlock Holmes has ever felt?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was thinking of maybe doing a 30 days of porn series sometime soon so you lovely people have new content from me in between waiting for updates for this story. What do you guys think? Or should I do an omegaverse fic? Will anyone be interested? :)

**Author's Note:**

> Your comments, no matter how minor, keep me going <3 
> 
>  [my tumblr](http://wtsnhlms.tumblr.com)


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